The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

The enclave of the City of Glass rose as an ominous jewel over the surrounding temples.

An obsidian wall - so lofty that a mastodon would shrink beneath it - protected its grounds with a sinister resilience. The rampart gleamed as a colossal gemstone - eternally polished by things most dared not name - and its sides held an unnatural smoothness that proved too slick for a fly, let alone any human interloper to cling to. Death rose at its top: a forest of jagged ebon glass that would split stone if one were to bear down upon it.

Yet, beyond the outer barrier, stood a vision of beauty.

A flowing tower of fluted glass held the sheen of fine crystal. In the light of the clouded day, it shone with a majesty akin to diamonds among the stars. Its structure appeared so delicate that it would shatter in an errant gust, but in truth, even a band of enraged giants would break their fists before marring its walls.

“I had often wished to visit this place under happier circumstance,” St. Cristabel remarked, gazing up as they approached the grounds. “I would rather have enjoyed singing of its beauty to Amitiyah.”

“They would never allow it.” Kyembe eyed the tower, tensely toying with his ring. “The glass city does not trust outsiders. Especially ones as dangerous as The Solidblade Knight.”

St. Cristabel frowned. “Then I pray they trust us now.” She stopped at the foot of the wall and pressed her knuckles to her hips. A line of footprints lead through the snow but abruptly disappeared into the embankment before her. Her eye discerned neither gate nor door. “Where may we gain entrance?” She frowned. “Do wizards magic their guests over the wall?”

“In a manner of speaking. Watch,” Kyembe stepped forward, pressing his palm to the volcanic glass. His crimson eyes peered into the black surface, and he drew in a breath.

“I bid greetings to the City of Glass!” he projected in clear voice. “May it eternally shine above the sands! Kyembe of Sengezi has come to speak with the wizard Ku-Hassandra!”

His words sank into the blackness.

Silence followed.

The wall shuddered.

“Amitiyah’s Tears!” St. Cristabel jumped back, her hand falling to her dagger.

The rampart rippled, as though eels swam beneath its surface, and began to swell. Obsidian writhed and twisted, bulging out before Kyembe’s face and - gradually - the protrusion sculpted itself until a woman’s beautiful countenance formed in its ebon surface.

Obsidian eyes slowly opened to peer at the Sengezian. Though no pupils or irises were apparent, they seemed to have no trouble with sight.

“Greetings to you, Spirit Killer. We meet again,” the clear voice of Ku-Hassandra streamed from the image.

Crnk. Crnk.

The ring of glass gliding upon glass accompanied her every word.

“Greetings to you as well, Ku-Hassandra…I come for a favour.” Kyembe grimaced, his worry heavy upon his brow. “My companion was taken by devils: Wurhi of Zabyalla. She was the little one at my side in Avernix’s camp.”

“So I have been told by my bodyguards. You were set upon by shapeshifters that wear both the form of wolf and man, bearing the resilience of hydras.”

“Yes!” Kyembe leaned further forward. “Their bane I have possibly identified, but I know nothing more of these creatures…not their purpose. Not how to track them. Please, I ask that if any knowledge is possessed by the enclave, that I might share in it and end these abominations!”

The obsidian face was impassive save for a slight tightening of the lip. “Certain knowings cannot be shared, Kyembe.” Its crystalline tones slid through the air. No breath misted through its lips. “They must be bartered for.”

“I…am aware,” the half-dark elf’s eyes dropped down. “But if you speak of bartering then there must be some account! Even a little knowledge would be of aid!”

The face studied him for several heartbeats. “…I have had the annals searched. There is something that might aid you. But only a little.”

“I must see it!” Kyembe pressed his other hand to the wall.

“Precious knowing must be paid for-”

“-lest all value is lost,” he finished the expression. “I have wealth.”

“We have little need for jewels and gold…but enter, and we may discuss terms. Stay on the path until the break in the trees to your right. Follow that to the bower and we shall speak there.”

Her countenance receded into the ebon surface.

Crack. Rumble. Whoosh.

Stone ground.

Liquid rushed.

The wall began to separate like oil fleeing water. Obsidian roiled in the fashion of hot tar as it flowed aside to leave a gap in the rampart - wide enough for a carriage to drive through in ease.

“Amitiyah’s Tears!” St. Cristabel cried once more.

No winter-bound landscape met her eyes.

Instead, a verdant oasis lay beyond the wall of black.

Palm trees and bushes heavy with ripe berries swayed on a bed of white sand. Flowers carpeted soft undergrowth, pollinated by a myriad of sandy-hued desert bees, while song trilled from birds that had never flown Laexondael’s skies. A hot wind bore the musical tones, accompanied by the scents of oranges, honey and cane sugar.

White marble formed a path curving deep into the green.

“What wonder is this?” St. Cristabel took in the desert flowers with shocked eyes. “I have drunk in the vineyards of Olubria and made merry in the royal orchards of Riyen, but never have I seen such as this!”

She stepped onto the path, reaching down to touch one of the flowers.

A dark hand grasped her shoulder.

“Stop!” Kyembe pulled the knight back. The strength hidden in his lean limbs caught her by surprise. “It is poison!”

“What?” She whirled in alarm. “Poison?”

He looked to the trees. “Oh yes, the clever bastards.” Stepping through the portal, the frigidity of Laexondael vanished around him. In its place burned the simmering heat of the deserts of Saba-Aful, drawing forth sweat beneath his heavy furs.

Yet, he knew what smothered his skin was a mere lie. His mind - sharpened by years under the Archwizard K’mark’s tutelage - discerned the holes in the sensation.

He glided along the stone tiles, carefully staying clear of the tantalizing branches. “It is near perfect. Near.” He gestured around himself. “But, there are flaws. Notice the flower’s fragrance. It is thin, is it not?” He sniffed. “The air bears the scent of honey, but I hear no hives. Trust me, I have only seen so many bees once before: in a nymph’s bower in the Olubrian wetlands.” A disdainful chuckle poured from his lips. “Their droning might have woken a world-serpent.”

St. Cristabel blinked. “Woken a what?”

He waved her off. “That is of no concern: the one in our seas is long dead.”

“I do believe that is of great concern!”

“Another time.” He waved her off again. “Listen to the sound of the wind on the branches. It seems as though they are farther than they appear. And the heat on our skin…it burns but it is only the pain of cold turned about in our minds.”

St. Cristabel scrutinized the Sengezian. One day she would have him explain just what in Amitiyah’s name a world-serpent was. She turned back to the greenery. “Strange…to me the trees look as real as you or I.”

“Give it time: now that you know, your mind will begin to find the gaps.”

“But what of the poison? How might a trick of light and sound be venomous?”

Kyembe gave a bitter smile. “The City of Glass is home to some of the most complex minds ever to grace or curse the world: their perversions are profound.” He peered at the illusion carefully, opening his eldritch channels and drinking with his senses. “Yes, as I thought. It is just the same as the protective gardens in the city itself. How can I explain it…”

He frowned. “Have you witnessed sunlight shatter as it passes through glass or crystal?”

“I have. The temple of the Weeping God in Laexondael has such crystals. It also has coloured glass that stains the light when it passes through.”

“Even better.” He gestured all about. “What you see, hear and feel is born of a hundred mirages captured in a prism of dream-glass. No doubt it sits at the tower’s summit.”

She frowned. “And what is dream-glass?”

Kyembe pointed to the white sand. “Crystal formed from melting the sand of dreams in an Ifrit’s morning flame. It is able to capture light, sound, breath and thought…it could even catch a soul if one knows the right incantations.”